


the organization man

by auberjonois



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Gunplay, Hitman AU, Hotel Sex, M/M, Office Sex, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27037483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberjonois/pseuds/auberjonois
Summary: Sex, it’s hardly a steep price for Burns, trysts in motels and his own stuffy office, all for the elimination of his corporate competition. Money isn’t the only bargaining chip he has after all.
Relationships: Charles Montgomery Burns/Waylon Smithers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	the organization man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seeyourcolorsrun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeyourcolorsrun/gifts).



> ah an au... this was written for my very good friend’s birthday and is based on his au where burns hires smithers to carry out hits on his competitors and pays him under the table shall we say... of course being a hitman isn’t all it’s cracked up to be even when your boss is a minxy old man 
> 
> -
> 
> This book is about the organization man. If the term is vague, it is because I can think of no other way to describe the people I am talking about. They are not the workers, nor are they the white-collar people in the usual, clerk sense of the word. These people only work for The Organization. The ones I am talking about belong to it as well. - William H Whyte

He could turn on the radio, he supposes, or at least roll down the car window to listen to the rush of the wind as he speeds down the desolate highway. But instead, he sits behind the wheel with just the sound of the car’s climate control recycling the cigarette smoke laden air through the vents. A sort of penance maybe, forcing himself to think about the man he left, head caved in over the desk, with no sound to distract him from the slow replay of a man’s death.

He glances up into his rearview mirror, there are headlights behind him, maybe half a mile back, another lonely traveler. Or a state trooper on patrol, that thought brings his cigarette back up to his lips. He takes a drag feeling the ember pull closer to his knuckles. Monty has the state in his breast pocket, but all it would take is one hot shot rookie with something to prove and it would be over.

Waylon breathes out, the smoke hovering flatly around him before dissipating, pulled through the vents and recirculated. The headlights behind him disappear, lost to some distant freeway exit. Not much farther until his own, he presses down on the gas and watches as each ghostly mile marker whips past him.

He knows he shouldn’t speed, there is no way he could hold up a confident façade in the harsh glare of a patrolman’s flashlight. Waylon can feel the cold sweat on his brow, his lips are chapped and his face looks bloodless, although not clean, in the rearview mirror. He drops the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray and plucks a fresh one from the box. Setting it between his lips, he lights it, the orange flame briefly stifling the green radium glow of the dashboard dials. The next instant it’s gone and Waylon takes a long drag. Ahead a highway sign reflects the headlights of his car, announcing a rest stop a few miles from the state line and the fast-food joints and motels that litter the nearest exit.

It hadn’t been a hard job, or a particularly messy one, but already he knows he’ll dream about it. 

“Make it personal.” 

Waylon had raised an eyebrow when Burns had said that.

They were in Monty’s office with the doors tightly closed and locked. Monty perched neatly on the edge of his desk, his legs crossed, while Waylon sat in a chair in front of him, a short file in hand, a brief summary of one of Monty’s former business partners. Unassuming and middle-aged he’d made several deals with Monty decades ago and, while certainly not a threat to Burns’ monopoly in the area, his company did have some lucrative holdings. 

“Personal, sir?” 

Waylon watched as Monty lit a cigarette and took a drag, everything about the man was distracting. His long legs and wiry frame, now more than ever Waylon found himself staring at those pursed lips. A Pavlovian response maybe to the locked doors and the temperature of the stuffy room that could rise from warm to positively humid given the chance. 

“Mr. Forrest is prone to tumultuous relationships, you’ll notice his string of ex-wives.” 

Waylon glanced down at the file again, four ex-wives, the man ended marriages at least once every decade. 

Burns rolled the cigarette between his long fingers as he continued, “Those women have more to gain than even me.” He laughed dryly.

“No one will suspect us, if-“ Burns paused and tapped his cigarette into the ashtray, “you do this right.”

“What do you suggest?”

Monty shrugged, “Don’t overcomplicate things, don’t hide the body, a crime of passion,” he made a vague motion with his hands, the cigarette smoke whipped around him, “but whatever you do, don’t shoot him.” 

Waylon frowned, he wasn’t afraid to get dirty, but it could have the nasty and unintended consequence of getting out of hand, even a worm bites when it’s cornered. And the idea of staging it to look like the passionate attack of a jilted lover, he wasn’t opposed to it, but it was easier said than done. 

“He likes men, you know?” Monty hummed as though reading his mind. He had the uncanny ability to recognize when Waylon’s thoughts were troubled, now more than ever it seemed since they had begun this arrangement. Or maybe Waylon had allowed himself to become easier to read, whatever the case may be it hardly mattered when Monty smiled at him and reached up to loosen his necktie with his free hand, an invitation. 

Waylon shifted in his chair and set the file down on the floor as he watched Monty for a moment, pulling apart the knot at his throat and undoing the top buttons of his shirt. 

“You have my full confidence as always, Waylon,” he purred. “But in case you need some incentive-“ Burns uncrossed his legs, spreading himself for his assistant. 

Waylon hardly needs more of a come-on than that and he’s out of the chair. Burns moaned and wrapped his legs around Waylon’s waist when Waylon grabbed his hips roughly and pulled him forward on the desk. He hooked his ankles together, the hard soles of his leather shoes clicking.

He tightened his grip on Monty as they grind their half-hard cocks against each other through the fabric of their pants. Already Burns’ pupils were blown and Waylon took a moment to savor just how much Monty wanted him, needed him, before he leaned down to bite the heated skin of Monty’s neck that had been exposed for him. 

Monty was already breathless and rolling his hips desperately against Waylon’s own, rarely did either one of them care to display any self-control during these frenzied office fucks. Waylon moved his mouth closer to Monty’s throat, nipping at the pulse there, feeling the warm blood rise to the surface promising feverish and tender bruises. Monty’s hand was between them at his belt, pulling it apart before shoving his hand down Waylon’s trousers to roughly grope his now aching hard-on through his boxers. 

Monty’s hand was hot and Waylon whined as he rutted into it, those long fingers caressed his shaft teasing him before Burns pulled his hand away all too soon. Waylon whimpered at the loss of contact but straightened up so that he could finish the job that Monty had started. 

But before he could reach for Monty’s own belt he was stopped by the flicker of the cigarette between Monty’s lips. He watched Burns inhale, and the ember glow hotly, before Monty’s hand fell away from his mouth again. His soft parted lips drawing Waylon in as the smoke spilled out from between them. Their mouths hardly touched as Waylon inhaled the cigarette smoke but when he breathed out again Monty pulled him down by his shirt collar, kissing him hard. Waylon let him claim his mouth desperate for more as he again reached for Monty’s belt.

He was shoved away, still crosseyed from the kiss and the pressure on his throbbing dick. 

“Sit down, Waylon,” Monty hissed, the hoarseness in his voice betraying his own need. 

As Waylon stepped back to sit in the chair as he’d been ordered to do Monty kicked off his shoes with no regard to where they fell. Waylon stared, through his glasses, crooked on his nose, transfixed by Monty’s fingers on his belt, then his fly, the next moment he had shucked his trousers entirely and sat again on the desk. 

Waylon groaned at the sight of him there, his shirt and tie crumpled from where they had been pressed between their bodies, his suit jacket hung off one shoulder, and his hard cock was straining against the front of his soft lace panties. Waylon swallowed hard, his mouth watering as he fought the urge to cross the office on his knees to Monty and taste the precum from his leaking cock. 

Burns reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small bottle of lube, he slicked two fingers on his left hand and watched Waylon’s face as he pulled aside his panties and traced his tight hole delicately. 

“Touch yourself for me,” Monty’s voice filtered through the haze of lust filling Waylon’s head. 

“Yes, sir,” he breathed. Waylon palmed his cock through his pants, arching his hips up off the chair and moaning as he watched one of Monty’s fingers slip into his hole.

“Show me how much I turn you on,” Monty purred as he fingered himself. 

Waylon swallowed and nodded, tugging his cock out of the front of his opened pants and stroking it slowly for Monty to see. He gasped as his fingers slid over the sensitive head and Monty hissed appreciatively as he began to fuck himself harder, his eyes on Waylon’s thick cock. 

“You never fail me, Waylon,” Monty growled as he slipped a second finger in. Waylon’s cock throbbed as he watched Monty stretch himself and he held his dick tightly at the base willing himself not to cum just from Monty’s praises and the sight of his boss fucking himself open for Waylon’s cock. 

He took a breath and steadied himself, watching Monty’s soft mouth fall open slightly as he stroked his prostate, his legs spreading further apart, denying himself as much as Waylon. 

“Waylon,” he called out finally, withdrawing his fingers and arching up from the desk, “please.” 

Waylon couldn’t close the short distance between them fast enough. One hand behind Monty’s head, tangling in his soft hair while he shoved his mouth against Monty’s, their tongues forcefully pressed together. Waylon’s free hand reached for the lube that Monty had set on the desk, he clumsily squeezed some onto his fingers before he thrust his hand between them to slick his aching cock. Monty squirmed impatiently, refusing to be denied any longer and Waylon guided his cock into Monty’s tight ass. They both groaned with relief as the head of Waylon’s dick slid past the ring of muscle and into the waiting heat, once there Waylon couldn’t help himself, fucking Monty wildly and listening to his pleas for more.

Monty’s fingers scrabbled for a hold on Waylon’s jacket, desperate for more leverage, anything to get Waylon’s cock deeper into his ass, his breath humid on his ear, hitching every time it brushed against his prostate. Waylon could feel Monty’s erection, hot and throbbing, beneath the fabric of his shirt and the panties. Monty’s head lolled back, overwhelmed by the friction and Waylon’s thrusts. 

These fucks could never last long, both of them already desperate to cum. Waylon sank his teeth into the already darkening skin above Monty’s shirt collar. He could spend hours in bed with this man, and he so often did, when Monty was feeling generous after a hard job. Those nights they teased each other endlessly until they couldn’t stand it any longer and once they were spent Monty would tell him to stay, one of the last vestiges of the illusion that this was all purely transactional. He didn’t need to be told to stay in Monty’s bed. 

Monty let out a thin whine when he finally came, his dick twitching between their bodies. Waylon rutted into him shamelessly, lips still pressed against his hot skin, until he unloaded into Monty’s tight hole, riding out his orgasm with short jerks of his hips. 

For a few minutes, they stayed crushed together on the desk while Monty clutched Waylon’s jacket, pulling him close, and mewled as Waylon brushed his lips over the hammering pulse in Monty’s neck. 

Monty gently pushed him away, either having been overstimulated or having decided that all of Waylon’s caressing had gone on too long for an office “payment.” Not every vestige had been lost. 

Waylon looked down and barely stifled a soft moan at what a mess they both were. Monty’s cum had leaked through his panties and stained the front of Waylon’s crumpled shirt. Cum dripped from his used hole and ran down his thighs. 

Monty dipped the tips of his fingers into it, gathering some and raising his hand to Waylon’s mouth. Without hesitation Waylon took Monty’s wrist tightly in his hand, stilling it while he licked the cum from Monty’s thin fingers. He could feel Monty’s eyes on him and when he had finished he leaned forward again to kiss Monty deeply, the salty and bitter cum mixing on their tongues until again Burns managed to shoo him off although Waylon caught the barest hint of regret in his eyes when he did. 

“You always do such a good job,”

He was still mulling those words over as the office workers left for the night. It hadn’t been hard to slip in among them and even less so to learn the patterns of Mr. Forrest who at this time was most likely finishing up paperwork or checking his email before he went home to his wife or mistress or whoever happened to be waiting for him in that penthouse apartment downtown. 

Waylon watched as Forrest’s secretary filed out, she didn’t see him there huddled in the empty cubicle he’d commandeered for his week-long stakeout. No one had noticed him despite occasional water cooler chat and even a few files dropped on his desk for whoever was meant to be working there. 

When the elevator chimed to announce its arrival and it was clear that the secretary had left the floor Waylon stood and wove through the cubicles and desks to Forrest’s corner office. He opened the door and stepped inside. 

Forrest looked up and smiled, he was toothy and balding. 

“What can I do for you?” He looked Waylon up and down, he felt stripped despite his slightly ill-fitting suit, one which would have to be tossed out after tonight. 

“Your secretary sent me,” Waylon regarded Forrest cooly over the rims of his glasses as he closed and locked the door behind him. 

Forrest hummed and leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “You’re older than she usually sends,” he said, though still smiling, still watching Waylon with interest as he crossed the room. 

Waylon laughed as he loosened his tie. “Will that be a problem, sir?”

Forrest grinned, “I like experience,” he motioned to the drink cart behind him, sitting beside the wide glass window, its view sparkling with the lights of the neighboring office blocks and vast expanses of brightly lit streets and intersections, “Fix a drink for us, uh?” 

“You can call me John,” Waylon said as he filled a glass with scotch.

“Mmh, John.” Forrest wasn’t watching him, his back turned, still sitting at his desk. Waylon could see him pulling off his tie and undoing the top buttons on his shirt. 

Waylon walked up behind him and set the glass on the desk before placing his hands on Forrest’s shoulders. The man groaned as Waylon slid a hand across his chest, under his open shirt. The skin beneath was clammy and Waylon lowered his head to rest his chin on Forrest’s shoulders, breathing hotly over his ear. 

Already he could see Forrest reaching for the fly of his pants under the desk. 

“John,” he muttered, “take your clothes off.”

Waylon stood abruptly at that, there would be no better time than now. “Anything you say.”

He reached beneath his suit jacket and pulled his pistol from its holster. Forrest was none the wiser as he continued to hurriedly unbutton his shirt. 

Waylon held the pistol by its barrel and struck him once, he could feel the skull crack and Forrest hadn’t even the time to scream, the noise he made was strangled and his right arm flung out across the desk spilling the scotch across the expensive wood and all of his paper files. Facedown on the desk now he gasped feebly. 

Waylon frowned, these personal things could be so much messier than he liked. He raised the revolver and brought it down again, the steel butt connected sharply with the seeping wound and warm blood was flung up and spattered across his cheek. 

Forrest keened from somewhere in his chest and Waylon watched as at first his body trembled, and then just his fingers twitched rapidly. All at once, it was over. Waylon sniffed and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, he very carefully cleaned the glass tumbler that had once been filled with scotch, then he turned to the drink cart and wiped down the bottle he had poured from. 

He inspected Forrest again as he passed his desk, headed for the door, blood oozed from his nose and pooled beneath his cheek. The puddle from his head wound was growing larger, mixing with the scotch and spreading across the desk. Waylon imagined that this is how Forrest would be found, shirt undone, maybe a woman would be blamed. Hopefully, though they’d get what they were due from the will. 

Waylon wiped down the door handles as he left the office. On the elevator, he cleaned the blood and tissue from his revolver as best he could with his handkerchief. And when he stepped out into the cool night he felt free just for a moment. That fearlessness had faded once he was back on the highway and paranoid that every flash of headlights in his rear view mirror or passing car was a state trooper looking for trouble. 

But now Waylon is so close now to his reward and refuge inside one of those anonymous rooms. The nicotine finally beginning to relax him as he guides the car over the lanes and towards the exit that veers off beneath a highway overpass. The traffic light hanging above the street pulses red, the night so far along and the streets so quiet he only has to slow before turning and following the pockmarked road towards the dim glow of motels and tired restaurants. 

It isn’t long before he sees the subdued light of the motel sign rising up among the telephone poles. Monty would choose a motel to meet at, often when they were out of state, and a room number to commit to memory. They never met in the same one, even if Waylon’s marks happened to work in the same town, but each room echoed the last, grimy carpet and thin walls lined with peeling wallpaper, the faint smell of mildew and cigarette smoke and sex. Most familiar of all though was the man in them, every room faded away with time, memories blurred by his singular focus on Monty and his prize.

The tires of his car crunch over the broken asphalt of the parking lot, an old sedan, its chassis hanging low over the pavement, is parked at the lobby entrance. Waylon recognizes it as one of Burns’ cars, one he uses when they’ve got to be inconspicuous, he doesn’t recognize the plate, but that hardly surprises him. 

He doesn’t park next to the sedan, instead, he turns his car and parks at the back of the motel. Monty might chide him for being so overly paranoid, but no matter how many cops Waylon sees Monty hand stacks of crisp bills to he can never shake the need to glance over his shoulder.

Waylon shuts off the engine and takes a last drag on his cigarette before snuffing it out and climbing out of the car. He slams the car door and locks it before crossing the lot to the back entrance of the motel. An employee stands beside the door, smoking beneath a dim lamp, a plastic name-tag drooping from her uniform shirt. If she sees him as he ducks through the steel door and into the glare of the interior lights, she doesn’t acknowledge him. 

The door slams behind him and Waylon makes his way down the long corridor feeling exposed beneath the bright lights, he’s lucky his clothes and face are as clean as they are, he could probably play off the long dried bloodstains, but he still fears a sideways glance from anyone who might be wandering the hall. 

He’s lucky, again, and he finds the room without any other guest or employee passing him, the tension that had built in his shoulders dissipating now that he is finally so close to his reward.

He’s hardly finished knocking on the door once before its flung open and Waylon is pulled by his tie from the pallid hallway and into the dim motel room. The television flickers from its place on the dresser, the only light in the room when Waylon is shoved back against the door with a thud, shutting out the withering fluorescent glow from the hall.

“Waylon,” Monty purrs as he presses closer, his voice is low, it mingles with the murmur of talking heads on the television set, late-night news. His left hand is still tugging firmly on Waylon’s tie, his right hand now on Waylon’s hip ghosting up his side beneath his jacket in a way that makes Waylon shiver with anticipation.

Monty’s hungry gaze lifts from Waylon’s parted lips to the long spatter of dried blood that streaks down beneath his left eye to his chin. He takes his hand from Waylon’s tie and runs the tips of his fingers over the dark red line, transfixed as the blood flakes away from Waylon’s skin, the dark flecks it leaves on his fingers.

“It’s taken care of then?” he hisses, breath hot on Waylon’s mouth, Waylon can taste the cigarettes Burns has been smoking, smell the champagne on his lips. The bottle is on ice somewhere in this room, far too expensive for whatever dingy surface it rests on. He could use a drink.

“Yes,” he breathes out, Monty’s eyes gleam in the fretful glow of the television, and his hand reaches up from Waylon’s cheek to cradle the back of his head. In an instant, his mouth is on Waylon’s. He surrenders so easily to Monty’s tongue and teeth, chasing the taste of the sweet wine on his mouth. 

His lips are soft and wet and his body warm beneath his thin button-down shirt. Waylon picks at Burns’ shirttail, tucked into his pants before he’s able to slide his hands under the fabric and across the heated skin. He pulls Monty closer to him, shifting his hips to grind his hard-on against Monty’s thigh, they both moan breathlessly into each other’s lips. Monty shoves his tongue deeper into Waylon’s mouth, his fingers tugging at his assistant’s short cropped hair.

The hand that had momentarily paused on Waylon’s side to clutch at his shirt loosened its grip and continued up until Monty found what he had been searching for, Waylon’s handgun in its leather holster, tucked beneath his suit jacket. He eases it out and Waylon hears the click of the cylinder, the soft thuds of the bullets as they fall from their chambers and onto the carpet. 

Monty’s eyes are wide, gleaming with anticipation as Waylon lets go of his bony hip and takes the gun from him. He steps forward, pressing the muzzle of the unloaded gun into Monty’s side. 

Burns leans into it, “You’re a dangerous man,” he whispers, voice ragged.

Waylon is inclined to agree as he forces Monty backward, further into the room, until they’re at the far wall beside the foot of the bed. He stops and digs the barrel into Monty’s side, eliciting a low needy whine from him. 

“On your knees,” Waylon orders and he swallows when Monty obeys, eyes turned up towards him, the barrel of the gun beside his cheek. Waylon presses it there against his skin for a moment, Monty has been waiting for him here for hours, it hardly seems fair for Waylon to deny either of them any longer. 

“Make yourself useful,” Waylon nudges him again with the cool steel muzzle.

Monty wastes no time when the barrel is put to his lips and Waylon moans when the muzzle slips into that soft mouth. Burns stares up at him as he takes the gun deeper into his throat, his face close now to Waylon’s erection, obvious beneath his trousers. 

“Fuck,” Waylon mutters when Monty pulls off the gun and passes his wet lips over the tip of the barrel. Waylon leans over and grabs the bottle of champagne he’d seen resting beside the television set. He pries the loose cork off with his thumb and lets it fall to the floor before putting the bottle to his lips and drinking from it. It’s good champagne, he knows that, and it should be savored, but he wants his mind in the here and now, not in that office, here with Monty in this mildewed room listening to his whines and the rattle of the aging AC unit. 

He puts the bottle back down, nearing empty, though it had only been half full when he’d arrived. He turns back to Monty, still hard at work, he’s drawing his tongue up the underside of the barrel, Waylon shivers, his dick throbbing. He knows that taste, metal and powder, maybe next time it would be his turn on his knees. Monty’s knees are spread on the carpet, the outline of his cock so tempting to Waylon, but if he gives in now Monty will be just the slightest bit disappointed. Which is to say on another day it may be hours before Waylon is allowed to cum. 

“Such a dirty old man,” Waylon hisses, he can already feel the warmth of the alcohol spreading through him. “You want my cock so badly.” 

Monty moans around the barrel, now deep in his throat, saliva smeared over his chin already. 

“Let’s see if you’ve done a good enough job.” 

Monty pulls off the gun with a wet gasp, he’s panting, overexcited by just the notion of getting to suck Waylon next. 

Waylon holds the gun up in the flickering light of the television, inspecting it as if it had been dirty before. And it would’ve been if he had fired it, but this was all a pretense, and Waylon simply studies the wet sheen over the metal.

He lowers the gun and sets it on the dresser beside the champagne bottle, taking a moment to remove his crooked glasses from his nose, setting them down before shifting his hips forward and into Monty’s face. “Go ahead.”

Monty wastes no time, with his hands on Waylon’s belt he presses his open mouth against Waylon’s hard-on beneath the fabric and Waylon gasps, jerking his hips into the pressure of Monty’s tongue and the heat of his breath. With his free hand, he forces Monty’s face against his erection and ruts into his mouth. He can feel Monty laugh at his impatience as he pulls apart Waylon’s belt and opens the front of his pants. 

In an instant, he shoves down Waylon’s pants and boxers moaning appreciatively at the sight of Waylon’s cock hard and twitching for him. Waylon moans too, overwhelmed by the cold air of the room and Monty’s humid breath ghosting over his dick. Monty takes it into his hand and smears the tip, wet with precum, across his warm lips. 

Waylon tangles his fingers in Monty’s soft hair, eager to feel that tight throat wrapped around his cock. Monty teases him at first, lapping at the tip of Waylon’s cock with his tongue before his own desperation wins out and he places his hands on Waylon’s hips, letting the shaft pass over his soft tongue and pulling him forward until he finally has Waylon’s cock buried deep in his throat.

Waylon clenches and unclenches his fist in Monty’s hair, rolling his hips up. Monty’s grip on him tightens before he pushes Waylon back, allowing himself to take a breath. Waylon knows what he wants and waits as Monty again slides Waylon’s cock slowly down his throat. 

Waylon thrusts deeper into his mouth and grunts before gripping Monty’s hair and pulling his head roughly back. Monty hardly has time to even whine for more before Waylon is fucking his face hard, setting a brutal pace as he forces Monty’s head down on his cock over and over. 

Monty’s hands hold tightly onto Walton’s hips, his nails digging into the skin as his throat is used roughly. Waylon can feel the vibrations of his moans coursing through his dick and he doesn’t let up as Monty drools on his cock, letting his throat be fucked, his eyes bleary with pleasure. 

“What a whore,” Waylon pants and shoves Monty’s head forward, his cock deep in his throat now, Monty makes a choked noise but Waylon only jerks his hips forward, the head of his cock again hitting the back of Monty’s hot wet throat. 

Monty swallows and squirms while Waylon bites his lip and cusses in a low voice, if he’s not careful he’ll cum like this, finally he pulls Monty’s mouth off his cock and watches as he sputters and gasps. Tears have formed at the corners of his eyes and stream down his reddened cheeks but he clutches at Waylon still and he knows that as soon as Monty catches his breath he will be begging for cock again. 

Waylon doesn’t give him the chance, he slaps Monty hard as he can across the cheek. Monty reels for a moment before moaning loudly and swooning against Waylon’s legs, a hand dropping down to palm at his erection. He moans again and Waylon watches him touch himself for just a moment.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, “look at yourself, hard from getting your throat fucked.” He reaches out and tilts Monty’s head back so that he can see his face again in the light. Monty smiles at him, defiant and cock stupid, his lips wet and red.

Waylon swallows harshly, he grabs Monty by the shoulder and yanks him up from the floor unable to wait any longer. 

He crushes his lips against that wet mouth as his fingers race down Monty’s shirt undoing each button until he can shove it from his shoulders and onto the floor, when he does Monty suddenly pushes him hard in the chest and he falls back onto the bed. 

Monty tuts, clearly having regained awareness, and taking advantage of Waylon’s lust drunk state. “You’re a pushover, Waylon.” He’s kicking off his shoes and shucking his pants as fast as he can while Waylon makes haste to do the same. Once he has he fumbles for the knot of his tie but Monty has already finished stripping and pounces on him, his long fingers at Waylon’s throat making him whine. He nearly cries when Monty’s ass brushes against his slick cock. 

Monty pulls apart his tie and unbuttons his shirt at a torturously slow pace while one hand slides up Waylon’s shirt to fondle his chest. Waylon yelps when his left nipple is pinched hard and arches up off the bed, frantic for more contact, his fingers scrabbling on the cheap polyester sheets. Monty laughs again, a sadistic smile on his lips. Soon enough though Waylon’s shirt is open and he’s spread across the bed at Burns’ mercy. 

At first, those hot thin hands slide up his soft stomach over his ribs and to his chest where Monty kneads the flesh for a few moments before leaning down and sinking his teeth into Waylon’s collarbone. 

“Ahh-“ Waylon can’t stop himself from shouting, the wine and lust have gone to his head as Monty bites and sucks the skin across Waylon’s chest. Someone in a neighboring room bangs loudly on the thin wall with their fist but the sound is ignored. Waylon bucks up, trying to find Monty’s soft skin but only ends up desperately humping the air. 

Finally, Monty lets up after one last hard bite to Waylon’s throat that leaves him reeling. 

“Get the rest off,” he demands, his voice is ragged, just as frantic for sex as Waylon is. 

Waylon sits up as far as he can with Monty still straddling him and pulls off his shirt and jacket before shoving them off the bed and onto the floor. He falls back with enough force that his body bounces on the creaking mattress. 

Monty stretches out across the bed, his body thin and elegant above Waylon who watches him, transfixed by the outline of his ribs, his sharp collarbone, and the soft hair on his chest. He reaches out and takes Monty’s hips into his hands as Monty leans back into his space, a bottle of lube from the bedside table in his hand. 

Monty catches him staring and fixes him in his gaze, it’s quiet for a moment and Waylon opens his mouth to say something but Monty pops the cap on the bottle and interrupts him suddenly. 

He wastes no time in pouring out some of the gel onto his hand before tossing away the bottle. In the next instant, he reaches down and slicks Waylon’s cock with a few quick pumps. 

Any coherent speech flies from his mind as Monty finally lines the head of his cock up with his hole and slowly lowers himself down. Waylon’s body jerks when the heat envelopes his dick suddenly and he wants nothing more than to fuck deeper into Monty’s tight little ass. 

Monty whines loudly as he takes Waylon’s cock fully and rolls his hips, stretching his ass around Waylon’s thick cock and nudging it against his prostate several times. It doesn’t last long and Monty puts his hands on his thighs as he rides Waylon’s cock like it’s the last time he ever will. 

Waylon looks up at Monty breathlessly, backlit by the blue light from the television screen, his cock bouncing as he fucks himself hard and fast on Waylon’s dick. He holds Monty’s sharp hips hard enough to bruise earning a moan from Monty when his thumbs dig into the sensitive skin pulled taut over the bone. 

He arches up off of the bed, letting Monty take what he wants. Waylon reaches out and takes Monty’s leaking cock into his hand, feeling the pulse when he does, he slides his thumb over the slit and Monty gasps. He’s so close now, his cock must be aching after so much waiting and teasing. Now Waylon lifts his right hand from Monty’s hip, wrapping it around his thin neck instead. Slowly he applies pressure, Monty’s mouth falling open as he does, his pulse is hammering beneath Waylon’s fingers, his eyes roll back before they flutter closed and he fucks himself even more frantically on Waylon’s dick, panting for air as he does. 

Then his body shudders, hot cum spills over Waylon’s fist, he groans as Monty’s tight hole twitches around his cock, and he lets his hand fall away from Monty’s throat. He squeezes Monty’s spent cock firmly, earning another low groan as he continues to shudder on top of Waylon. He watches as the last beads of cum leak from Monty’s dick and smears them with his thumb. Monty mewls, overstimulated, and ruts into Waylon’s hand desperately. 

After another moment of drinking in the sight of Monty squirming on his cock Waylon has mercy on him, letting go of his softening dick and taking him again by the hips. He lifts Monty from on top of him, groaning when his cock is no longer buried in the heat of Monty’s ass. 

Waylon flips their positions, now straddling Monty with his knees on each side of his narrow chest. Monty stares up at him, eyes still unfocused after his orgasm, but he damn near purrs when Waylon puts his aching cock to Monty’s lips once again.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, “open your mouth.”

Monty does as he’s told, opening his soft mouth and sticking out his warm pink tongue, Waylon groans at the sight of it as he begins to stroke his cock, his hand gliding over the head, still coated in Monty’s cum. 

Monty makes needy and excited little noises as Waylon pants harder. 

“You little slut,” Waylon chokes out and pauses just a moment to smear the head of his cock, leaking warm pre-cum, across Monty’s left cheek and to his tongue. “Just begging for me to cum on your face.”

Monty whimpers and laps greedily at Waylon’s cock. Waylon hisses at the contact and jacks his dick furiously now, the hot coil tightening in his gut. His body shudders when he finally lets himself go, his cum coating Monty’s waiting tongue and spattering across his face. 

“Fuck,” he breaths out, falling forward and bracing an arm against the headboard as his cock continues to pulse, he’s cum so hard every throb hurts, the last drops of his cum spilling out onto Monty's lips. Monty looks so pleased with himself as he continues to hold Waylon’s cum there on his tongue before finally swallowing it with a self-satisfied hum. 

Waylon groans at the sight and finally collapses beside Monty, pulling him close and burying his face in his neck. “God, you’re so pretty,” he murmurs into Monty’s warm skin.

Monty laughs quietly, “Always the flatterer,” he replies, although he sounds pleased with himself. 

They lie there for a moment, the sweat cooling on their heated bodies, seeking the warmth on each other’s skin. The AC rumbles and Monty shivers in Waylon’s arms. He reaches to pull the covers over them but Monty swats his hands away. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” he says and sits up abruptly before sliding off the bed and slipping into the bathroom where he flicks on the dirty yellow light. Waylon squints against it, the room is suddenly much brighter than before. After he blinks for a few moments and orients himself he stands from the bed and follows Monty into the bathroom. 

The shower is running and Monty is scrubbing the cum from his face with a dry towel while he waits for the water to heat up. Waylon wraps his arms around Monty’s waist from behind and rests his head on his thin shoulder. They stand there quietly until steam begins to fog the dingy mirror and they step into the shower. 

Waylon lets Monty stand under the hot water first, allowing himself to be inspected in the bathroom light. Monty scrubs gently at the remaining blood on Waylon’s cheek, it flakes away and turns the thin rivulets of water a rusty color as they run down Waylon’s chest. 

“Turn around,” Monty says sharply and Waylon does as he’s told leaning back against Monty’s chest as he rinses Waylon’s hair with soap. He’s tired now, the champagne making him lethargic and he closes his eyes as Monty scrubs at his aching body. There was no way of knowing what time it was, but it must be creeping towards the very early hours of the morning. 

Waylon sighs as Monty drapes his arms over his body and rests his chin on Waylon’s shoulder, tracing thin scars on his chest and arms possibly recalling the close calls he’d pulled Waylon through, the nights they spent on hotel beds in a tense silence as Monty dressed his wounds. 

Monty pulls away finally and Waylon turns to find him already washing his own hair, he’s too drowsy to protest, instead just watching as Monty scrubs himself clean. But when he reaches to shut off the water, Waylon takes him by the arms and pulls to his chest. 

Before Monty can protest Waylon kisses him lazily, wrapping his arms around Monty’s frame and holding him there. He teases Monty’s lips gently with his teeth before he runs his tongue over them until Monty gives in and opens his soft mouth for it. They stay like that as the minutes pass until finally Monty breaks the kiss. He runs a hand over Waylon’s cleaned cheek. 

“I love you,” he murmurs and Waylon swoons against him, pressing his face into Monty’s shoulder. He could say those words to Waylon a thousand times over and he’d never tire of hearing them.

“I love you too,” he says quietly into Monty’s wet skin. 

As if it has all become too saccharine for Monty he begins to push Waylon away only to be caught by another kiss on the mouth. 

He breaks it off, “Waylon, you and I must-“

But Waylon kisses Monty again and again and he kisses him hard until the water runs cold from the tap and even then they kiss until they are both shivering against each other and finally have to shut off the water and dry off. 

The hotel sheets are a far cry from the soft linens on Monty’s bed at the manor but it’s such a relief when Waylon finally collapses onto the mattress and pulls the blanket over himself. Monty isn’t far behind him and settles under the covers beside him, tangling their legs together. He reaches to the bedside table and takes a half-empty box of cigarettes and a lighter from it. Waylon watches dreamily as he lights one and takes a drag before trading the box and the lighter for the ashtray on the same table. 

Monty offers the cigarette to Waylon and he takes it, placing it to his lips and inhaling the warm smoke. Monty always had much fancier cigarettes than the cheap packs he kept in the glovebox of his car, the smoke smooth and clean. 

“You did another fine job,” Burns says as he takes the cigarette back from Waylon and taps it into the ashtray. 

Waylon hums in acknowledgment and lies back, the morning news cycle is slowly beginning on the television. 

Monty finishes his cigarette and snuffs it out into the ashtray before he finds the remote for the television and shuts it off. The room finally quiet save for their breaths and the AC unit still humming away. 

Waylon can feel Monty shiver beside him and leans down to take his discarded shirt from the floor. He helps Monty tug it on and buttons it closed around him before he slides his warm hands up beneath the fabric, letting Monty curl up close to him and rest his head against his chest. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep but when he wakes up Monty is already out of bed and dressed, sitting on the foot of the bed, a streak of bright light across his lap steaming in from a gap in the thick dusty curtains. The television is on again, though muted, the ticker tape banner at the bottom of the screen announces a body found in a corner office of a high rise building. 

Monty shrugs and says a few pleasantries to Waylon, hardly anything of note they’ll meet again at the plant in a few hours, and then he’s gone. 

Waylon dresses in his dirty clothes and picks up the bullets strewn across the sticky carpet before he leaves the room as well. He passes by reception but doesn’t speak to the clerk, the same tired woman from the previous night, Monty usually checked in and out for them so that Waylon could simply slip off. The woman’s lipstick is smeared and she gives him a dirty look as he walks out of the hotel, no doubt having been the one to receive their neighbor’s complaints during the night.

Waylon shrugs it off and steps out into the glare of the early afternoon, a cloudless sky stretches out forever above him. In his car he’s surrounded by the smell of stale cigarette smoke, he rolls down the window and starts the car. And he drives.

**Author's Note:**

> no one needs to read the organization man and i hope that william h whyte is rolling over in his grave as i reference his lame capitalist management book for this fic about kinky old man sex. 
> 
> happy birthday also, my good friend ; ; your kind words and of course your insights into all these AUs inspire me every day


End file.
